


obvious

by magichandthing



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Multi, No use of y/n, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magichandthing/pseuds/magichandthing
Summary: You never understood why or what you did that made him extra robotic around you, and fuck, now not only were you jealous of Nina’s never-ending energy and perfectly supported spine, you were jealous of Connor’s ability to analyze and read you for absolute filth.(In which Connor has a crush on you and tries to win you over- but much like the others in his life, you're a tough nut to crack. He thinks he likes you that way, anyways.)
Relationships: Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Reader, Connor/Reader
Comments: 19
Kudos: 131





	1. tense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bro i dont even know, i got anxiety and commitment issues so i project all my emotional and worldly desires onto a fictional robot who's more emotionally well-adjusted than i am

Connor was driving you mad.

Not mad-mad, but _mad._

Anyone knew androids- no matter how existentially aware, no matter how deviant - weren’t the most… emotionally intelligent. Sure, they could feel now that the barriers on their minds and society were lifted, but just because the floodgates were opened doesn’t mean they came fully equipped with the ability to _understand_ exactly what “conflicting set of instructions” truly entailed, or how emotions affected their human counterparts.

Shit, _you_ barely knew how to understand it- and you’ve been dealing with this your entire life.

But Connor?

It had to be something else.

At first, you thought that maybe he was doing this on purpose- he was built to pinpoint weaknesses, after all. You’d thought he knew what made you tic, knew what you make your heart race (he _could_ measure your heart rate with just a glance), knew exactly what would push every emotive button in that squishy CPU of yours and just kept to himself in some sick, sadistic, and entirely self-indulgent form of human-android retribution.

Every brush of fingertips when you’d hand off papers ( _does he make accidents like that?),_ every glance met ( _he stares at everyone, but is he staring at you particularly hard?),_ every bump of shoulders in a too crowded elevator ( _well, that one can’t be helped, right?)_ sent your heart _careening_ into dangerously high rates, and god, he _had_ to have known, right?

But the expression on his face never changed, no matter if yours did. If he knew, he’d never let it on, and you seriously began to question what he was like _before_ he became deviant. But it’s not like he didn’t emote, or act human, or do that stupid, shitty little smirk-and-wink of his with a playfully blinking yellow LED - it’s just when he saw _you_ that he’d seal his expressions off a la _I’m Connor, The Android Sent From Cyberlife._

God, he was driving you fucking _mad._

And you couldn’t even _be_ mad.

***

It’s been a smooth six months since the birth of android freedom, and a smoother four since you started on as a receptionist with the Detroit Police Department. And listen, you had neither the guts nor the matching ideologies to jump into the bullpen, geared up and decorated, but work was work, and in this economy and climate? You’d take what you could get, honestly. Better to be able to feed yourself in your dumpy, little apartment, and drive to work ( _yourself_ ) in your ’20 model sedan over the fate others faced after the revolution.

Right?

You sigh, tapping away at the keys in front of you. A light chatter filled the waiting room, a few stragglers pacing anxiously hear the back wall, and you heave another as you close out the booking tab. Your (human) coworkers had gone on lunch, leaving just you and an android receptionist – you think her name was Nina- to man the front. Not that it was particularly busy, what with afternoons typically being the slowest time of day, and you yoink this opportunity to get up and stretch your aching back.

“Hey Nina, gonna be right back,” you start, tossing a quick glance at her enviably perfect and not-achy posture, “Is that cool with you?”

She nods, eyes never leaving her screen as her own fingers skitter furiously across her keypad, and you supposed some things never really changed. Without wasting another second (though you _did_ spare an extra twinge of jealousy at her lack of exhaustion), you slip back through the gates, through the open office, and took a right into—

Coffee. _Hot_ coffee. Fucking lots of coffee and holy fuck that’s _pain._

And maybe if it wasn’t for the literal _burning_ on your forearm, you would have felt even a slight sense of embarrassment, but all you could do was throw the most scathing glare you could at the offender who’d “literally NASCAR’d his way around the blindest curve with the most amount of coffee no human needs”—

“—I’m sorry.”

And of course, of _course_ it was Connor. Not only did he (un?)intentionally spend every, professionally-forced moment together utterly tormenting you, but now _you_ just had to:

  1. accidentally create a totally Hallmark-channel-Christmas-special romcom _moment_



and,

2\. say something completely insulting while doing it.

There’s a terse silence as the realization settles on your end, and… you suppose Connor was now finicking through his protocols- torn between checking and treating your (mild) burns, cleaning up the mess, or presumably accomplishing his mission by bringing whichever human pricks ordered him to bring a palette of fresh coffees, anything else be damned. His LED spun yellow, each cycle chasing itself endlessly as he thought.

You figure you should say something.

“It’s… fine,” you lamely offer, heartrate spiking like your skin absorbed every ounce of caffeine and shot it straight through your bloodstream, resolutely avoiding Connor’s steely gaze. You never understood _why_ or _what_ you did that made him extra robotic around you, and fuck, now not only were you jealous of Nina’s never-ending energy and perfectly supported spine, you were jealous of Connor’s ability to analyze and read you for absolute _filth._

He leans in a little closer, setting the sodden tray down on the stand table beside you, and instinctively, you match that same distance only backwards. God, you could near _hear_ his gears turning, and you stick out your arm, presuming he’d chosen to prioritize your injury. You chance a glance at him, and saw that he was—

He looks… _upset?_

Your arm drops to your side.

His brows were knit in a neat, little furrow, the corners of his lips slightly downturned. Was he mad? Was he insulted by your words? No doubt he _was,_ because he may have been uncharacteristically cold around you, but you’ve seen stolen and hidden moments where you knew he _felt._ Embarrassment morphs into a hot mortification _,_ and fuck, your brain scrambles for solutions to your social faux-pas, cursing your human inability to just Google something just a few blinks of your eyes and cursing your _personal_ inability to just get social cues and conflict resolution.

You had chosen to be a receptionist, over a cop, for this reason exactly. Connor takes a step back, and you feel some of the tension zip out of the air from the physical distance.

“Are you… _okay?”_

You nearly heave when he had chosen to break the silence in your stead, sucking in a quick gust of air through tight lips, eyes on his, now.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you murmur, offering a placating smile, breaking free from whatever freeze your body’s broken fight-or-flight mechanism put you in. “Shit- I’m sorry– “

The coffee. Maybe you could make amends for whatever the hell just happened by _helping_ him, instead of standing there like a total dingus. Without hesitation, you drop to pick up the spilled cups and—

He does too. As if he _knew_ you were going to do that, he follows you gracefully to the floor, picking up the emptied cups without even breaking his gaze on you. And oh—oh no, oh no no no, your heart picks up again at that, face flushing hot as you focus on the mess on the floor over the android detective that would not _stop staring at you._

“You don’t have to clean this up,” he starts, voice soft and words intentional, and you can’t quite place why the tone of his voice bothers you. “I can do it. I’m sure you’re quite busy.”

You scoff, feeling eased by his words and tone at face-value, nonetheless. “I’m not that busy. If anything, I’m sure _you_ are.”

He hums, stacking the cups into a neat line, offering a hand out for yours, and you nearly jump out of your skin when your fingers meet his in the trade off. Fuck, _this_ is what you meant when you wondered if he tortured you intentionally- as if he calculated your break habits and just _knew_ when you’d be rounding the corner, to catch you offguard, to cause cardiac arrest decades before you were old enough for one. You drop the cups, and note the little frown settling back over his soft features.

There’s another brief silence, and you watch his LED blink a flash of red before settling on an uneasy yellow. And he searches your features, scanning you in a smooth, subtle line (the path his eyes took looking surprisingly human) before even _he_ began to look uneasy. He looks almost… nervous?

His mouth opens. Then shuts. Then opens again.

“I—May I ask you a personal question?”

_Talk about getting caught off-guard._

“Yeah, um—of course. You—you don’t have to ask if you can ask me a question, Connor.” You try to sound lighthearted, but you knew he knew you weren’t okay, and you drop the attempt entirely as he drops his gaze, fumbling with the cups.

“I wanted to ask because—I wanted to ask if,” He pauses, as if trying to find the words, LED furiously spinning yellow. It stops as he settles on what he’ll say. “…If you find my presence disturbing. I would understand. Many humans still struggle with the concept and social implications of android deviancy.”

All of the air rushes out of you in that instant, and you breathe a sharp “no- no that’s not it,” shoulders rolling forward.

“I noticed that my presence puts you on guard.” He continues, watching from his crouched position as you get up and hurriedly grab some rags from the sink in the kitchen. “Your heart rate elevates, you begin to perspire, you avoid eye-contact—“

Every, little thing he lists stabs you in the gut and twists the knife as if punctuating his observations, and you cringe, returning to mop up the mess. His hand shoots out and grabs your wrist, and you gasp, dropping the rag with a sad _plop_ into the mess of coffee.

“—And you react negatively to touch. I’ve seen you hug Lieutenant Anderson and fist-bump others on multiple occasions. I’ve also seen you make prolonged and brief eye-contact with visitors. Your heart rate remains steady, even in the presence of strangers. You banter with others, you engage in friendly bullying—I’ve only observed this sort of behavior with me.”

He lets go of your hand, and your biggest regret of the day was looking at him, looking at _you._ Despite his cool, steady voice, a twinge of hurt stamps onto his features in the way his brows pinch up, eyes widening marginally in what Hank affectionately terms his _“puppy-dog protocol.”_

If you didn’t feel like shit before, you certainly felt like shit now.

“I—“ He murmurs, “I only ask because I would like to ease any discomfort you feel.”

It clicks- it fucking clicks. The way he acted around you- why he was cold _only_ around you and shit. You feel like _shit._ He delicately picks up the rag, now sodden with coffee, and stands, wringing it out into the sink and rinsing. He’s giving you time to _process,_ you dimly realize, once you see his expectant and near-shy expression upon his return. It’s now your turn to flap your mouth uselessly like a fish, but you take the time to make sure that, for once, you say the _right_ thing with the _right_ action to him.

He’s in the middle of mopping up the last of the now-cold coffee when you reply.

“I don’t… find you disturbing at all, Connor,” you whisper, trying to ignore the way the sickly yellow cycles back to blue. “I just—Fuck, I dunno, Connor. I don’t know why I get all, all—“

“—Nervous?” He finishes for you, looking at you with an unreadable gaze, rag dripping into his hand cupped underneath. At your stunned silence, he steps back to the sink to drop the rag and wash his hands, and you bristle because you know he’s using the whole, silent-treatment-as-an-interrogation-tactic on you. You bluster, not liking the way he so accurately poked at one of your vulnerabilities and then made you _sit in it_ , rounding back at him.

“Yeah, okay fine, yes- I’m _nervous.”_ You snap, suddenly feeling a bit defensive _._ “But why do _you_ care about how I feel? You’re not programmed to be people-pleasing anymore, you and I barely have business together- there’s no _need_ to cater to me.”

You know you’re being belligerent. You know you’re being rude because you’re sore he figured you out inside-out when _you_ barely could do that sitting in your own mind all day, but you can’t help it, shooting your gaze to the side of him, fixating on a corner in the room. But that means you miss the way his hand raises to his chin, you miss the way his LED flashes back to yellow before settling back on a steady blue, and you certainly miss the way his lips quirk into a soft smile as he hums a thoughtful tone before he speaks.

“For starters, Hank enjoys your company.” And you scuff a quick laugh, though he quickly quiets any commentary by continuing, a little rushed. “Hank is… my best friend. Who he cares about, _I_ care about.”

You swallow that laughter immediately, and you can’t miss the way he steps a little closer, breaching your personal bubble. You don’t step back. Fuck, you don’t even _lean_ back.

He pauses, _reading_ you _._

“Secondly, maintaining a pleasant work environment is good for emotional health and for overall work performance. I would not want to create a hostile working environment for anyone in this office, human or not.”

You chuff another short laugh, and quickly—

“Figures it’d be about work. That makes enough sense.” You say, looking at him finally, eased by the direction this conversation was going. This—This feels nice. This is good, when the conversation stays neutral and you could ignore the pounding in your chest whenever he simply _exists_ near you.

“Well, that’s not all.” He plainly states, and you roll your wrist as if to say _go on._ “I like you.”

You dodge it, at first. A certain emotion shoots through you, and you stamp it down. He’s too good at steering the agenda into the direction _he_ wants, zeroing in on a goal and damn well fuckin’ _getting it._ It takes you a moment, but you recover, marginally, though not nearly quick enough or slick enough to be unflappably subtle.

“Well, that’s good, ‘cuz I was worried _I_ put you off there too,” you laugh, trying desperately to not sound tinny with nerves, “If it bothered you enough to bring it up in some big, serious conversation how awkward I was being, I wouldn’t have doubted if—“

He leans in closer, and you falter.

“—if you hated me.”

Fuck, you didn’t like the way this conversation took a sharp turn into _Vulnerability City,_ and you faux-punch Connor on the arm amicably in an attempt to widen the gap between you two. To shut, stamp, and seal that this conversation would remain, forever, _neutral. Friendly._ “Gotta keep a pleasant workplace, am I right?”

But his expression didn’t match the tone of your effort. _You_ feel eased, maintaining the emotional distance that felt comfortable to _you,_ but Connor—

He looks a bit conflicted.

“I don’t hate you, I couldn’t hate you.” He sounds so… _adamant._ You nearly make a joke about him and programming, before swallowing it down as he continues. “And it’s not _just_ about work, or—or- or Hank, or anything else—I _want_ to be around you. I don’t completely understand it but I know I _like_ you.”

 _Don’t take it the wrong way, do_ not.

“Connor that’s—well, of course you can be around me,” you assert, frantically shoving down your feelings, packing them shut in an overstuffed mental suitcase. But you feel the edges slipping out through the cracks, feel the strain it takes, feel the push from the inside from a certain _pressure,_ and you can’t help but avert your gaze, leaning back when he leans _in._ “Listen, if you want to be friends, you don’t have to worry. I promise I won’t act funky around you, okay? I’ll give you fist-bumps too, I’ll— I’ll talk to you, or whatever else. Okay?”

Connor tries the silence again, but you don’t take the bait this time, pleading with your eyes to just _drop this_ , that you’re only moments away from breaking, and he relents with a soft, “okay.”

He doesn’t look completely satisfied, like he still wants to discuss this further, explain, to _extract_ information, but backs off as if accepting the terms you’re willing to offer and not pushing any further. It shocks you, at first, turning the conversation once again on its head, but you didn’t forget this time that he was legitimately _made_ to handle delicate situations. It eases you some- he’ll never push too hard, he’ll never try to hurt you, and…

And he _cares._

At the decline of your tense shoulders, he relaxes too, sighing softly as he steps away from you.

“I’m sorry,” you both start, but you stop, allowing him to finish. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He sticks out his hand, long fingers curled into a fist, and you smile as you bump it with your own.

“It’s okay.”

And you genuinely meant it.


	2. neutral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long and the pacing's a lil wonk! i had a bit of trouble with my vision for this chapter (which yeah, i know it's only chapter 2 but i have mad adhd and i dont Plot)
> 
> all in all im not super keen on the syntax of his chap but also for each sitting to write it, i was heavily sleep deprived so please be kind

_He sticks out his hand, long fingers curled into a fist, and you smile as you bump it with your own._

_“It’s okay.”_

_And you genuinely meant it._

* * *

Work drags along after —after the whole coffee fiasco.

You and Nina both were swamped to your throats with new intakes, angry visitors, and whatever else you can name. But—there really must be a higher power, shining its rare, golden fortune all over your miserable ass, because from the crowded front of the house, you couldn’t see Connor _or_ the bullpen. Plus, the workload and the physical distance put you into a deep calm that could only be obtained through good, old-fashioned space and _busy._

It keeps your wandering mind off of… the Encounter, and a wandering Connor away from _you_.

Yeah, you never going to think about that again. Bookmark the page, but toss the whole damn book out. Better to keep your head down, out of the clouds, and definitely don’t think about how _warm_ his hands were.

“Hey,” a soft voice interrupts, and your head snaps to the side, “—you okay?”

Nina looks mildly concerned. She’s certainly a pretty sight, with her delicate ponytail slung over her shoulder and her lips pulled into the most _perfect_ pout, even if she wasn’t meant to be pulling an attractive face. You feel another hollow pang in your heart.

“Y-yeah, sorry—Just distracted. Emotions, huh?”

That… didn’t even earn you a hint of a smile from her, and _ugh_ , you cringe while letting the remnants of your laughter fade into uncomfortable silence. And Nina, oh perfect, little Nina, just offers a sympathetic (if not slightly patronizing) look, waving her fingers in a dainty _shoo_ ing motion and says, “Maybe it’s time to head home. It’s late, and it’s slowed down, anyhow. I can finish up for you.”

You don’t even protest, but fuck the warm gesture of kindness pulls on your weathered and beaten heartstrings, and did androids eat anything? Did they make thirium pastries? Cakes? Would she like a gift or something? Because you needed to make up for the absolute _pit_ that put in your stomach, taking advantage of her kindness while you sat here for _months_ stewing away about _her perfect this, and her perfect that_.

Her lips pull back, and it’s only then you realize you’ve just been staring.

“Oh—“ you sputter, shaking your head. “Yeah—uh, yeah, if you don’t mind. Are you sure?”

She just smiles softly at that and just repeats the motion, nodding, and you waste no time in packing up your things, stumbling over your hurried _thanks_ and _I’ll make it up to you_ s.

The day was long-gone by now, the powdery snow of early December dusting the pavements outside of the station. It’s brisk, just cold enough for the water to freeze, but not enough for you to make a mad dash to your car. You wave goodbye to Nina as you step through the employee exit, taking in a breath of the crisp air, and it wasn’t until you’re about fifty feet from your car in the back lot that you notice.

Your heart stops. Dead stop. The air stales in your lungs.

 _Fuuuck,_ you wished you took up your co-workers’ advice on carrying pepper spray or _something,_ because there was someone _standing_ there. Right there. Next to your shitty little sedan, out in the shitty weather, in the middle of the shitty night, and dully, you note that this man seriously has some balls of fucking steel to be stalking someone or trying to jack their car from the parking lot of a _police station._

Your heart abruptly starts up again to lurch into your throat, and fuck, shit, _goddamnit,_ you’re in the halfway point between your car and the door back into safety, uselessly calculating odds that you know you don’t have the smarts for when he starts to walk _to_ you, hands raised.

The figure steps into the light and—

_Wait—_

_"_ _Connor?”_

“Hi,” he calls out, like it's the most casual thing, picking up his pace and jogging over to you, and god, if it wasn’t for the fact he was smiling like you were his entire _world_ , you’d have clocked him for pulling that stupid stunt.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you say instead, though you instantly regret it with the way his face falls, and oh, you feel a headache coming on. Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose as he stops shy of a few feet of you. “What are you _doing_ out here? You scared the shit out of me!”

“I was—I was waiting for you,” he supplies, unhelpfully, backpedaling from his excitable tone, “I heard from others around the office that friends often go out after working hours, with the earliest waiting for the others. Usually- uh, usually by their cars.”

Oh. You’re about to tell him it’s socially acceptable to, y’know, let the person know—but one look at his face and Jesus, you feel like you’ve kicked about fifty puppies from the distraught look on his face. _But what did you know about socially acceptable, anyways?_ Instead, you take a steadying, deep breath through your nose, ignoring the way the cold tickled your lungs, and gave him a tired look before you spoke.

“ _Connor_ —okay, uh, yeah,” you start, before your fight-or-flight mechanism _super_ unhelpfully drops then and there, leaving a cold pit in your stomach as the realization of _why_ he was out here caught up with your sluggish mind. “Wait—wait, you want to do _wha—?_ You were waiting _why?”_

He shuffles a little. You stare him down, and this was probably the closest thing to _nerves_ you’ve seen from him. Where all that confidence and bravado from the break room gone off t—

 _Nope._ You refocus in front of you, raising a brow as he opened his mouth.

“Well, I was waiting to ask you to, to hang out,” he tries, though he quickly adds, “I understand if you don’t want to. I just figured, since we’re friends now and all, that eating a meal together would be a good activity to get to know each other better. I was hoping it was something you’d be interested in.”

 _Hang out_ —that sounded so… foreign coming from him. You wanted to laugh at that, but—your reaction to him waiting already seemed to have rattled his confidence, and you opt to just raise a brow, face soft. He’s trying, you’re trying, and you didn’t have the heart after… the entirety of the day’s events to endure yet another encounter.

Plus, he had a halfway decent idea. You could do with some actual food.

“I mean, sure.” You ignore the way his LED blinks blue, for the briefest moment, “I’m a bit tired, but I don’t mind. Is the Lieutenant still around? I’m sure he’d like to tag along, man eats like a damn bear—Oh, and—“

“— _No!”_

A hand over your wrist stops you as you turn to head back inside, and you whip around, eyes wide. Connor drops your wrist like he’s burnt you, and you stare at him, awaiting a response for whatever the absolute fuck _that_ was. He cringes- _cringes?_ \- and takes a step back from you as his LED furiously blinks yellow. “Ah—I’m sorry—I, uh- I meant to say that Hank—that Hank’s gone. Home. Hank’s already gone home.”

Okay, so, you didn’t need to be some sort of ace, super-computer detective to calculate the odds that _that?_ Total bullshit _._ You’re about 99% (humanly) sure the look on your face communicated that, but either Connor is _that_ good at deflecting or he straight up didn’t see, considering his head is turned to the side by the time _you_ had turned.

Connor doesn’t pay any mind to your staring, and recovers quickly—catching _you_ off-guard – returning to his unflappable _deviant negotiator_ state of being, “Plus, many social niceties stipulate it’s rude to invite others into a… hang out, without the express permission of the other party members.”

Your eyes narrow, the slow cogs in your brain turning as you observe him, utilizing his silent treatment tactic against him. Flashes of your conversation prior threaten to pop up, but you slam each one down as you search for _any other_ reason as to why he was behaving so oddly. Malfunctioning social interactions component, perhaps. Or even an accidental trigger of his _high-stakes_ fight-or-flight simulator.

Any reason that didn’t lead you down the path that he meant he _liked_ you in that way, that he wanted a _date,_ just the two of you, alone—You keep silent, but ultimately it was for nothing as he looks back at you coolly, murmuring a quiet, but irritatingly sassy, “is it not?”

“I… guess,” you start, cautiously, “Though I figured you’d be okay with Hank, at the very least.” You juke left, trying to face him, but he avoids your gaze again, staying quiet as he shrugs. If anything, you know this _has to_ be some sort of tell, even when he’s giving away literally _nothing_ while simultaneously acting—by-far—the _weirdest_ you’ve ever seen him. You decide to toe the line. For information purposes, of course. Connor’s behaving… odd. What if he needs maintenance, or whatever the fuck deviant androids need when they’re acting peculiar?

Absolutely _not_ because you wanted to tease him when he’s clearly trying to hide something.

“So, _are_ you okay if we invite Hank—”

And like a shot, Connor promptly replies, “—He’s gone home, remember?”

“Okay, then, what about Miller? And who else… Oh—Reed? You _did_ say you didn’t want to create a hostile work environment—”

“—Miller has a family and child. It would be quite rude to ask him to attend a last-minute get together,” he counters, then turns somber for a split second, and damnit all, you wished you could see his LED, “Do you _really_ want Detective Reed to join?”

A short, bewildered snort leaves you at that. _This little brat._ Two could play at this game, and you fall easily into the banter, heart picking up just a touch. Payback, you determine, for the earlier break-room humiliation, and it takes a decent amount of your waning self-control to hold back a grin.

“That’s fair. About Chris and his family.”

You pause, faux-contemplating your answer about Gavin, humming and hawing dramatically as you tap your chin. And _that_ gets his attention, Connor turning to face you now, LED blinking a stuttering yellow as his eyes widen, brows drawing down in a look of instant regret.

It’s too cute, honest-to-god, that he’s _concerned_ that you’d actually invite _Reed_ of all people.

“I’d rather shoot myself in the foot, Connor.” You say, grinning, and you didn’t miss the way Connor’s shoulders slant down in relief. “Okay then. No Hank, no Chris, and no Reed. What about Nina?”

An easy out, but he takes it. As fun as this game was, you needed to get a move on, ‘cause 1) that hunger was _really_ starting to creep in and 2) at some point, your teasing’s gonna turn into straight up bullying, and you weren’t sure you were ready for the consequences, all things considering.

“Busy,” he declares, easily, a lopsided smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. “I’m sure with _your_ leftover work.”

“Ouch,” you say, but it’s got no bite to it, really. “Fine, I give up, I yield, whatever. Just the two of us, then _._ Let’s go, yeah? _”_

By god, he _beams_ at that. You end up just deciding that you’ll just bookmark his weird behavior and how _easily_ you fell into comfortable banter with him to overthink _later_ (hopefully never)—but right now you wanted to _eat_. You wave your hand for him to follow you to your car, but before you could activate the touch-unlock, Connor’s suddenly in front of you—

— _Opening the_ _door for you??_

And before you can get an edge in, he’s stumbling over his words to try and _explain,_ “—Human—Uh. It’s polite. It’s part of my… human-android…. relations…. _programming…?_ ”

 _That_ wins him a laugh, but it cuts short at the look of absolute _adoration_ on his face. Fun, little banter be damned, the ease of your conversation be damned, all of it be damned—because at that _look_ you feel the familiar edges of doubt creep under your skin, settling low in your bones as you break your gaze.

Backtrack— _backtrack_. Right the fuck now—but—but don’t hurt his feelings _._

You pat him on the shoulder with a “thanks, Connor,” and sit in the driver’s seat, starting up and immediately blasting the shitty heater, even though the engine hadn’t even warmed yet. The gust of wind is bitterly cold, and this is necessary, you decide, watching as Connor practically _runs_ around the car to get into the passenger side, hopping in and shooting you a grin. Your heart gives another pitiful _thump_ against your ribcage, that annoying _warmth_ spreading under your skin as you soak in his smile.

“Where to?” He asks, eyes softening marginally as he matches your gaze, and you avert your gaze back to your steering wheel, before pulling out your phone.

“Uh—well,” you start, fumbling stupidly with the damn thing. “I— Um. I was thinking burgers, but it’s kind of cold and wet outside so maybe somewhere inside. Or soupy. Soup actually sounds _really_ good right now. What’cha think?”

He offers a low hum, _still_ giving you that damn, dopey smile. “That works. I’d like that.”

You keep your eyes glued to your phone; you knew where you were going, but it was out of a sheer desperation to avoid any-and-all eye contact. “That settles it then.”

“That settles it.”

***

The drive itself was… pleasant. Connor didn’t bombard you with too many questions, didn’t try anything funny, didn’t do anything you _expected_ a guy to do once he had you in the safety of solitude. He just… sat there, occasionally piping in to ask if you _had a favorite genre of music,_ or give a fun-fact about the Lieutenant. But mostly, he sat next to you, in the cozy warmth of your car, watching the sleepy world as it passed by.

And frightfully quick, you start to relax into his company again, into his easy smiles and warm looks, into the freakishly compatible bantering, into it _all._

You pull in, parking haphazardly on the curb, before unbuckling and stepping out. The smell pulls a hungry growl from your stomach, and with every, passing, _warm_ second, you were happier and happier that Connor had suggested that you had gotten a bite to eat together. It wasn’t often you had company, but you preferred to share your meals with others- eating alone in your apartment just felt too damn lonely- and you amicably bumped the android’s shoulder with your own as he joined you.

“Thanks for inviting me,” you murmur, looking in his general direction but not quite him as the two of you entered the establishment. He doesn’t reply, but you knew he heard you. It still catches you off-guard, from time to time, just how well he understands the woven intricacies of _humans_ , and both spoken and unspoken languages _,_ yet remains fresh-faced and innocent in the face of the mundane, like slang, or— or even just— _friendships_.

The two of you settle into a booth near the back after you pay and order. Connor insists on sitting in the corner facing the door, but you don’t complain- you figure it’s just some weird, cop-robot-brain programming, opting to sit across from him as you rub your fingers together to warm them up. The drive was too short, honestly, to really get that clunker of an engine to fully heat the cabin up, and you were grateful more than just the impending food.

Food. Did he order anything, too?

You blink, and Connor catches the subtle shift in your body language- catches your hands stilling, your eyes narrowing, and definitely the way your lips part ever-so-slightly—

“Hey, Connor,” you begin, brows knit. He sits up a little straighter, at that. “Do you _eat?”_

In all of the four months you’ve known him, you don’t think you’ve ever _seen_ it. There’s an awkward silence, punctuated occasionally with a distant laugh or the clink of silverware, but he makes you _sit_ in the tension before he breaks it with a simple,

“No.”

You grimace. “That’s it? No longwinded explanation on _why_ androids don’t need to ingest things to survive? No description of your ‘features?’”

“Not everything needs to be explained,” he states simply, playing with the edge of a napkin, straightening out the dog-eared curve from where it was carelessly stuffed into the metal tin. He lays it in front of you, placing your spoon onto it, adjusting it- at imperceptibly precise angles- this way and that.

“Okay, then,” you start, suspicion lacing your tone at his terseness, “If that doesn’t need to be explained, and you don’t need to eat, then why’d you choose to invite me to ‘eat a meal together’?”

You note the way his fingers freeze for a moment, and the way he adamantly doesn’t reply, and _oooh_ , you’d normally be furious at being so blatantly ignored, but you can’t help but be _endeared_ at the way he so innocently flickered to observing the patterning on the fading wallpaper. Patience is a virtue, you decide, settling back into your chair, just watching.

He finally replies, just a simple, “I thought you’d be hungry around this time. That’s all.”

 _That’s all_ , your ass. This cheeky motherfucker was hiding something from you, has been _all night,_ but before you could come up with an in into his mind, the food arrives, and all was forgotten for at _least_ five bites in.

“See, you _were_ hungry,” he cuts in, before you could formulate what you _wanted_ to say, offering an almost… timid(?) smile, and—

“Connor.” The sharp tone of your voice pulls him straight, and oh god, he looks like the guilty family dog you scolded for chewing a shoe. You immediately soften your tone. “You never answered _why?”_

He gives in at that, surrendering to your insistence like he was still bound by code, though the guilty look… disconcertingly stayed. Whatever it was sent a short chill down your spine, and it definitely didn’t help that Connor began to look elsewhere, again, fumbling with the corner of another napkin.

A soft sigh punctuates the start of his sentence, “I wasn’t lying when I said I thought you’d be hungry.”

“And I never said you were lying,” you counter, raising a brow, “but you’ve been acting all sorts of—funky with me since- since— Y'know-“

“Earlier? In the break room?” He finishes for you, acknowledging the unspoken with tenderness, and _oh_ , those gentle eyes were on yours again. You curse Cyberlife to hell and back for creating an android that could disarm in so many ways than just physically, and just opt to nod. Welp, you supposed _now_ was a better time to confront this, instead of at 3:24 AM, in your bed, alone, with a racing mind.

“Yeah, uh. That. I know it was awkward and all, but you don’t—you don’t have to force anything, Connor,” you start, the edges of doubt starting to close into you now as the gears click in your mind. “ _Fuck,_ if – if that’s what this was, it’s okay, you don’t have to make up—“

“No,” he interrupts, dispelling any anxiety with how _soft_ he sounded, how earnestly he looks at you, and how his hand closes over your fist and _stays_ there. It’s surprising to you both that _you_ stay there. “This isn’t—I’m not trying to force anything. I just—The underlying reason is I wanted to learn more about you. I thought if I was too direct, that I would cause you stress. You seemed… uncomfortable, back in the—back in the break room. At my confession.”

Oh. Oh no. Oh— _Oh_.

“I… I know—I’m sorry. I feel now that I should have just asked to begin with,” His eyes had dropped, at some point during the conversation, though he continues on, drawing his hand from yours, “I value this friendship _and_ you. The last thing I’d want is to harm that.”

 _Friendship._ You let go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding at that, your heart hammering against your sternum. And honestly, you felt just as trapped as it was, hand slowly sliding off the table to rest in your lap. It was endlessly frustrating—this constant battle between what you _wanted_ versus what you’d allow yourself to have, between letting go and holding onto the safety of isolation.

Connor deserves better than that. Deserves better to constantly surround himself with broken people he unknowingly helped piece back together, better than to spend the rest of his functioning days toiling through yet _another_ form of labor at the expense of his newfound freedom and emotion.

And normally—normally you’d have hightailed it out of there, with some flimsy excuse about _not feeling well_ or a _family emergency,_ but you knew he knew you far better than the average person, and…

…And you wanted to be a little selfish. Would it hurt? Would _this_ hurt?

“You couldn’t mess this up—I—I couldn’t hate you,” you whisper, mirroring his earlier statement, trying to match his tender tone despite all of the warning bells in your head that just told you to widen that distance again, “I’m sorry, Connor—you- I don’t know why you’re so adamant about this, but I’ll try. Okay? I’ll try not to be so—so weird about things.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, the tension seeping from the air between you as he smiles, “Though, if I may add and if it’s of any comfort—I don’t think you’re ‘being weird.’ You engaged in friendly banter with me in the parking lot, you chose to spend your off-time with me, and…”

His smile melts away into a heart wrenchingly tender look, and oh, maybe your self-control isn’t as tattered as you thought, because you stared, wide-eyed, as he bumped your knee with his, winking playfully.

“…you seem more at ease around me.”

And _ohhhhh._

Signed, sealed, stamped shut—you were _fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this entire fic is only going to consist of fluffy and mildly angsty relationship building


	3. warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: reader has a panic attack and some self-deprecating thoughts. this chapter was written kind of on the fly because i had some personal struggles as of late and i just... needed this. im trying really hard to keep the *~drama~* of fanfic without outright writing abusive/toxic relationships, so i hope this soothes others as it did me. love u thank u for reading

_“Okay,” he murmurs, the tension seeping from the air between you as he smiles, “Though, if I may add and if it’s of any comfort—I don’t think you’re ‘being weird.’ You engaged in friendly banter with me in the parking lot, you chose to spend your off-time with me, and…”_

_His smile melts away into a heart wrenchingly tender look, and oh, maybe your self-control isn’t as tattered as you thought, because you stared, wide-eyed, as he bumped your knee with his, winking playfully._

_“…you seem more at ease around me.”_

* * *

You were fucked.

You were _so_ fucked.

That night ended… fairly tame. Connor- bless his little, thirium-pump heart- refrained from pushing it any further than he did, let you finish your meal in _relative_ peace, though the both of you knew that he…

Well, he’s planted a seed.

…

In your _mind,_ obviously.

The rest of the night passed in a haze, too- at your departure from the restaurant, Connor had decided to part ways there instead of seeing you home, and oddly, you were thankful for it. The implications behind driving him back? Or god forbid- _him_ driving _you_ home? The tension of sitting in a car? Alone? Too much.

It’s just too much—and though it’s not unheard of, or odd at _all_ , for friends to drop each other off, your overstimulated and quite-frankly rocked psyche couldn’t handle even the _chance_ of another blow from Connor, the android so hellishly sent from Cyberlife, tailored to ruin the wall you’ve been building around your heart for the better part of the last decade.

But… you drop the keys into the small bowl by your front door, shucking off your shoes and you feel… light. Despite the crisis you found yourself in, you feel—you feel better than you did before. Withered anxiety flares and gnaws at the thought, at your slow relent into _enjoying_ the time you had spent with Connor, but you can’t help but smile as you recall the night.

Recall his little smile, his hand over yours, his knee against yours.

And in the privacy and safety of your home, its walls safe, secluding, and _tangible,_ you let yourself smile.

Just a little.

You didn’t think about the Encounter, either.

***

That first night pretty much set the prelude for how the next few weeks pass, too- relatively calm, full of warmth, and—

To your undying surprise, nothing changes. Literally. _Nothing_ changes between the two of you. Connor, ever the go-getter, _mission successful,_ tunnel-vision-on-his-goals type, didn’t… didn’t back down. But didn’t amp anything up, either? Like he knows your mental limits and absolutely _refuses_ to stir up any shit that could even potentially harm you.

But, every night that he can, he would wait by that car of yours—which at first would continuously scare the living shit out of you, because he never did pick up on _asking_ for your time, first. But eventually, he’d inch closer from the car to wait, you’d become accustomed to seeing him there for you, and he’d move closer to the door, until—

Until today. He’s standing over the opposite side of the front desk, one arm propping him up, his posture exuding _cool_ and _charisma_ like some sort of young Casanova-type trying to pick up on a honey _._

Except his facial expression didn’t really reflect that. At least to you.

He looks nervous again, like he’s trying desperately to _appear_ like he knows what he’s doing, but by this point, you’ve spent enough time with him to see his subtle tells, and you raise a brow at him.

“Hey, Connor. You good?” You start, leaning over to check the clock his head was conveniently blocking. His LED is yellow and spinning cyclically, and you note it’s still an hour until you were due to be off? It’s soft, but you think you hear a shuffling noise coming from him, and you stay quiet in favor for letting him speak.

“I’m alright,” he says, and that shuffling starts _again._ What is he _doing_? “I was just wondering if you would like to… ‘grab a bite.’”

 _Huh?_ You blink, then blink again, glancing over at Nina, who was _very adamantly_ staring at her screen like she wasn’t just three feet away and had the supersonic hearing of a literal android. The confusion’s palpable, because the two of you literally spend all of your matching time-offs “grabbing bites,” so why was he being so weird about it _now?_

“Connor, you’re asking like I haven’t already been spending a—“ You stop short, cutting down that admission, before quickly- too quickly _, fuck-_ starting again, “—You’re asking me like I’ve been telling you to fuck off all this time.”

Did Nina _snort?_

Connor doesn’t look… any better, though. In fact, he looks _pained,_ now. And what? Literally what in the holy hell is going on? You glance between Nina, who _definitely_ is smirking, and Connor, who _definitely_ is being fucking weird, and there’s that weird shuffling noise again and you’re convinced there’s some android-telepathy fuckery going on right now.

“Connor?” You press, brows pinching up in concern for the _both_ of you, “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t reply, but _Nina_ does.

“I didn’t know you and Connor here were an _item.”_

And oh. It clicks. Late, as always, because you’re you, but it fucking clicks as your face flushes _hot_ and Connor’s LED matches the color of your face. He was—he was _asking,_ he was asking in public, asking in specifically in front of others because—because he- because—

Your brain shorts. You stare at him, stare at his LED because he’s currently enjoying the scenic views of the wall, _la-dee-fucking-dahing_ his way through your absolute mental stop.

And again, it clicks. Slow.

 _He wanted someone to know how much time the two of you spent together._

_He wanted someone to think you two were-_

And of course, he can tell when you’ve finally caught up, his LED cycling back to a nervous yellow as he still doesn’t stop eye-fucking the wall. You’re still speechless, and Nina—oh my god, _Nina—_ takes the opportunity to poke at the dwindling flames of your emotion to stoke it.

“Well? Are you not?”

You shoot her a look that’s a mix of shock, embarrassment, flustered, caught-off-guardness—you get it—and all she does is give you a passive smile, like she just _knows._ Maybe you needed to re-evaluate her altruism.

“No—no, we’re—” you don’t look at Connor, “—We’re just friends.”

It’s lame, because you knew that each, individual action of his was proving to you that there wasn’t a damned reason behind his behavior _except_ for it-who-shall-not-be-named, and the dread at that dim realization and _this situation_ started barreling towards you as if it were claiming it would _not be ignored._

“Hm,” she hums, simply, and you’ve learned her speechlessness usually preludes a vicious snap of wit, “Maybe I misunderstood. My human-android interactions protocols must be outdated. Tell me then, for my own reference, is it considered _platonic_ if one asks another’s _friend_ if—“

“ _Nina.”_ Connor suddenly bites, brow firmly set as he _glares._ Your already-too-fast heart rate spikes at that. “Stop.”

“No,” you interject, a little weakly, though you don’t know _why,_ “What—what were you saying?”

Maybe she looks a little conflicted, at that. Like maybe she overstepped in her teasing, overstepped in her meddling, and offers a sympathetic look to the two of you that doesn’t really do much to help the way your vision starts bleeding colors into each other.

“Um,” she sounds _nervous,_ glancing back to Connor who’s now got his face completely smoothed out, though the shuffling sound is _back,_ “Is—is it considered platonic if, if someone asks another coworker to…take on some extra work?”

“ _What?”_ You ask, mostly because that is a vague as fuck situation and because you’re not sure _why_ Connor seems so bothered by this statement. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“Connor asked me to stay late that one night so he could ask you to dinner.” She blurts, finally, and okay your brain is officially _battered_ because you end up just staring at her, and you’re pretty sure your face- to them- looks like that slow, cycling pinwheel a computer gets when it’s lagging. You manage a pathetic _wuh?_ Connor looks… well, Connor looks like he _doesn’t._

He says your name, softly, tenderly, like he’s talking to a skittish animal, and slowly, you understand.

_He wanted to spend time with you._

_He liked you._

_He… likes? You?_

You try to smush it down again, try to find a platonic reason for that night, but it doesn’t really work with Nina taking the opportunity to excuse herself for a bathroom break (which you know was for your privacy because androids don’t fucking pee), and with Connor giving you the most—the most apologetic and expectant look combined.

“You weren’t supposed to know about that,” he says, quiet.

A rush of air escapes you, and he’s starting to talk again when you raise a hand instead, cutting him off.

“Connor I—It’s okay.” And you wanted to add that you were sure he meant it platonically, but you think back to that night, all those weeks ago, and—

_Plus, many social niceties stipulate it’s rude to invite others into a… hang out, without the express permission of the other party members._

_The underlying reason is I wanted to learn more about you._

_I like you._

You lurch forward in your seat a little, catching Connor by surprise, and oh- oh fuck, you feel like you’re going to be _sick_. This was—this was too much, all at once, and you weren’t alone, you weren’t safe at home to sort through these feelings, you’ve already burdened someone else, and Connor—

That thought was back. He deserves better than this. Than you.

You get up, suddenly, and you’re thankful Nina’s back because you just—bolt. It’s stupid, it’s unprofessional, and you distantly hear Connor _and_ Nina calling after you worriedly, but you just need to be in a fucking room alone, _right now_ , or you _really_ would be sick. You slam into a bathroom stall, slamming the latch, slamming your head into your hands and _breathe._

You don’t know how long you’re in there until you hear a gentle knocking and your name in Connor’s voice.

“Go away-“ you choke, because no one can see you like this. No one’s allowed to know, and you’ve already made the stupid, stupid mistake of letting Connor worm his way as close as he already did. “ _Please.”_

You can hear him hesitate, but he tries again. “Can we… Can we just talk first? Just please—let me—I just want to—“

He’s stumbling, you’re _falling,_ and you suck in another harsh breath because fuck—as much as he deserved better, you couldn’t stay away. It’s your Achilles’ heel, his soft voice, his soft emotions, _him,_ and before you could stop yourself, you hear yourself whisper,

“Okay.”

You don’t move, though, afraid to leave the safety of the stall’s walls.

There’s beat, and then, even softer.

“Can I see you while we talk?”

He waits. He waits, not saying another word. He waits until he hears the click, until he hears the door slide abruptly open (and you missed the olden days of manual doors), until he sees your face.

And he does something that you’re not used to.

“Thank you.”

It sends your heart reeling, it forces you to snap your gaze up to him, and your eyes narrow because—because what if he’s utilizing some weird, negotiation tactic? What if this is all just so he can learn something from you? But all of those _what-ifs_ fade in the wake of just how _open_ his expression is, how he looks pained and apologetic and worried and _adoring_ all in one, and you can’t help but look away.

“Don’t thank me,” you whisper, “Just… just say what you need to say.”

He wastes no time.

“Well—I’m sorry. Initially, I thought it would be better to ease your workload without your knowledge, but I realize now that I was being deceptive. I didn’t consider your emotions, nor your scheduling, and I’m sorry.”

He sounds _upset—_ and it’s because of you _._ _You_ made him apologize a lot, _you_ made him feel this way. He was just trying to be _nice._ You offer a shrug, fiddling with a loose thread on your shirt-hem. “Listen, Connor, it’s really—it’s really oka—“

“—Please don’t just say it’s okay when it’s not,” he interrupts, earnest, and normally this is where he’d step closer, but you dimly realize he doesn’t, this time. “It’s clear to me that I’ve overstepped. My intentions did not match the outcome. I want to apologize.”

That stops you dead in your tracks. All you can do is reply, flatly, “Okay.”

“And—I understand if you are angry. I’ve upset you, and—and, “ he struggles with this next part, almost uncharacteristically so, and it’s enough you chance a glance at him. “—I understand if our relationship is permanently marred because of that, and you don’t… you’d like to stop. Being my friend.”

Okay, no. _That_ stops you dead in your tracks.

“Do you— what do _you_ want?” You rush, and _oh my god,_ the fruits of your emotional toil were _finally_ starting to show, except _you didn’t fucking want this._ You’d pushed back at his every attempt to get closer and he stayed away _for you_ and now it’s come to this- he’s thinking he’s permanently fucked up and is giving _you_ an out.

And Connor looks confused at that. Like, genuinely taken aback.

“I’m asking _you.”_ He insists, slowly, like he’s processing which avenue you’re on and trying to match it. He quickly tacks on a, “I’m happy the way things were.”

That calms you, somewhat, but in all honesty, you still feel… off. Like there’s words he wants to say but won’t because of _your_ inability to be vulnerable, to roll over belly-up out of fear of a gutting instead of a loving touch, and maybe—

Maybe you want to trust him. He’s given you no reason _not_ to- he’s always rectified when he’s fumbled, he’s always been kind, never pushed you too much, always _matched_ what you could handle and—and—

Even now, he’s here, in the bathroom where he doesn’t need to be, drawing you out.

“I… I don’t get it, Connor.” You say, voice so full of air it might as well just been a drawn-out sigh. “Why—why do you want to be my friend so badly? I don’t get it. I really don’t—“

He hesitates, like he’s preconstructing just how this conversation could go. There’s a pregnant silence, and you wrap your arms around yourself before _he_ sighs.

“I don’t understand it, either,” he admits, though he looks kind. “I simply like you.”

You don’t know if that guts you or not. He continues, anyways, long familiar with your stunned silences and knowing just how long he could take advantage before you recovered.

“I don’t understand all of the nuances of emotion. I don’t have the capability to understand yet- philosophically- what it means to… ‘like’ someone. But I do know, from the moment we were introduced, I wanted to learn more about you. I do know that- even before our friendship- it was a priority to please you, to engage with you. And that to me, means I like you.”

He pauses, lips pursing somewhat as he considers this next statement, “And I know it’s different from the way I ‘like’ and prioritize other people and things, like the Lieutenant and my job. I prioritize our time, I prioritize your safety, your happiness, and I just— _want._ ”

Fuck, your heart was _pounding._ There was no mistaking it- there was no out, there was no way for you to self-deprecate yourself into squirreling his affection for you into the hole of _platonic_. You braced, though you were making eye contact with him now, soaking in his revered expression.

He ends, simply, with a smile and an, “I don’t get it, either.”

And you’re _gutted._ You realize you rolled over for him the moment you let him into your life, and he absolutely gutted you in the best way possible, taking all of your fears about his intentions, about him, about vulnerability and, and just _showing you._ It forces you to breathe, forces you to just stare at him.

“Now,” he says, with a certain brand of vulnerability that you weren’t used to seeing from him, “What about you?”

You snuffle, emotion breaking through the small crack in your defenses, eyes watery.

“I—I‘m not angry.” _Please don’t go._

“I like this—I like being your friend.” _I like you, too._

You reach out a shaking fist, lower lip pinched tight as you fought back tears, eyes pleading. He gently bumps it with his, but before you could lower your hand, takes your wrist into his for the briefest moment.

“I’m glad,” He says, with far too much emotion, “Is it alright if I give you a hug?”

A soft chuff of laughter leaves you, and you nod. The instant that you do, his arms are around your body, and your heart leaps into your throat at the contact because surprisingly, he’s _warm_ and… and soft. You don’t fight the urge to hug him back, to nestle in closer, and you swear you hear a _whoosh_ coming from somewhere inside of him. It carves years off of your life, the way you have to hold back sobbing into him like some sort of depraved idiot, but you manage to do it until he steps back, expression glowing with warmth and tenderness.

“I’m sorry.” You say, this time, and stop Connor before he could protest, “I’m apologizing for my behavior, too. But also—I… I want you to know I’m trying.”

He listens, intently.

“I’m… This is a conversation for another time, because I’m sure Fowler and HR’s gonna have my ass for being away as long as I was, but—I’m—Listen, Connor, I’m going to have a lot of these—Lots of these moments.”

“But—I’m trying. I really am.” _Please don’t change your mind._ “I hope—I hope you understand.”

And like he’s gently tending to a sprouting bud, he pats your head, smiling softly. “I know. Thank you.”

You want to say, _don’t thank me._ You want to say that _it’s okay if you change your mind._ You want to reassure him there will always be an out to the shit-show that is being around you, that he doesn’t have to stick around with yet another self-destructive human, but you… don’t.

Because you want him around. You want him to want you. You want to let yourself give in, to just try, to bare your soul to him because you _knew_ in your heart-of-hearts that he’d cup it close in those warm, gentle hands of his, and just protect it. Cherish it.

Connor turns to leave, the conversation seemingly over and satisfied with your calm, but you reach out to take the corner of his jacket into your fingers.

He stops.

“W—“ You start, sucking in a shaky breath, “Wanna grab a bite tonight?”


End file.
